


Deriving Pleasure

by Calacious



Series: Masochism [2]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Paid Sex through an Intermediary - both parties pay, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Pre-slash for Steve and Danny, Rape Fantasy, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every once in awhile, Danny has an itch that needs scratching, and he goes to the seedier parts of the island to get his itch scratched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mas•och•ism (ms-kzm) n.
> 
> 2\. The deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from being humiliated or mistreated, either by another or by oneself.
> 
> Not sure where this one came from, quite honestly. It went rather askew...let me know if you like this. It is a bit heavy with regard to the subject matter, perhaps - I'm never very good with judging that. 
> 
> Please ignore any grammatical errors, and read for pleasure. 
> 
> To be honest, I wasn't sure I should even post this, so, feedback would be nice.

Every once in awhile, this is what Danny liked, and he sought it out as though he was a druggie looking for a fix. It was like an itch that needed scratching, and he didn’t feel _right_ until this particular itch, when it came upon him, was scratched.

This is how he found himself standing outside of the house of someone named, Manny. The man’s number and address had been given to him, passed to him beneath a table at a seedy bar that he frequented, only when he had this _itch,_ which was two, maybe three times a year.

Though, lately, working with McGarrett seemed to make the itch come more frequently, and this was the second time, in as many months, that Danny had sought release for it. Danny refused to think about what that meant, and focused instead on the door that he’d yet to knock on.

He’d been assured that Manny was a professional, that his identity would not be divulged, even under threat, or torture. That promise wasn’t reassuring. Danny knew that, in his line of work, he couldn’t trust anyone, especially not those who would _bend_ the law, and justify it to suit their needs.

Charles, the owner of the seedy bar that Danny had visited earlier that week, was such a man. He bent the law as he saw fit, and stayed just shy of actually breaking it.

Charlie’s loose interpretation of the law suited Danny’s purposes just fine. Even if the man _did_ cross the line at some point in time, Danny knew that he wouldn’t arrest him, and not just because of the amount of dirt that Charlie had on him.

In spite of the man’s blatant disregard for the law, Danny liked the man, and not just because he helped him to scratch an itch, but because, when push came to shove, Charlie was a good man. He had a good, generous heart, and the way he talked about his wife and grandchildren gave Danny hope for his future.

Clearing his throat, because sentimentality was not something that Danny wanted bring into this, nor were thoughts of his sweet daughter. Grace did not factor into any of this, and Danny forced his thoughts away from her, and from Charlie and his grandchildren.

Innocence and Danny’s itch did not mesh. But, oddly enough, or maybe not so oddly, thoughts of McGarrett - current bane of his existence, and pain in his ass - did. Frowning in thought, Danny adjusted himself as thoughts of McGarrett’s more annoying habits - the things about that man that sometimes drove Danny to despair of life, or at least question his sanity - flashed in a tableau, not unlike a motion picture, across the forefront of his mind.

Danny shook himself, and focused his eyes on the door. He wasn’t sure why he was hesitating now. He’d never hesitated before. It was strange, and he blamed it on McGarrett.

The man had been avoiding him lately, and Danny didn’t know what he’d done to lose his partner’s respect. Though he could be misreading Steve’s recent quietness whenever he was around, and the way the man stiffened whenever Danny drew near, Danny was hard-pressed to think of what else it could be that had driven Steve to behave as though Danny was a leper.

Furthermore, Danny didn’t understand why he was letting Steve get under his skin. Since the whole fiasco with Rachel, and then with his failed, almost serious relationship with Gabby, he’d made up his mind not to let himself get close to anyone else. He was, for all intents and purposes, an epic failure when it came to relationships - even with family (what had happened with Mattie was proof of that). So, Danny had made up his mind to keep things with Steve, Kono, and Chin strictly professional.

_Maybe that’s why McGarrett’s giving you the cold shoulder,_ Danny thought, but then he shook his head, and snorted. _As if. The Super SEAL’s probably working on some top-secret mission, and is pushing people away so that he doesn’t have to deal with any possible emotional aftermath._

Just as Danny made up his mind to close the gap between himself and the nondescript door, it opened inward, spilling light out onto the sidewalk. The light illuminated him, but it somewhat blinded Danny and made it difficult for him to get a clear view of the tall man as black dots danced before his eyes.

“You gonna stand out there all night and fuck yourself, or you gonna come inside and let me ride your ass?” Manny’s voice was low and husky, and Danny’s dick jerked in response to the man’s rough tone, the way that he’d spit out the words.

Swallowing, Danny nodded, and he blinked, hoping to clear the few remaining dots from his vision. He wanted to get a good look at the man who’d paid Charlie to fuck him like a whore, because Charlie always chose tall, dark and handsome men for him.

Men who liked to take charge, and who Danny just who was boss. Men who weren’t afraid of his big mouth, and loud hands. Men who weren’t afraid that, by putting him in his place, bending him over a rail, or taking him against a wall, he’d break. Men who weren’t afraid to knock Danny down a notch or two, make him beg for it, and then, before the night was over, have him crawling back for more.

Likewise, Danny had paid Charlie to be fucked by Manny, to have the man rough him up a little while he did it - a man who wouldn’t take, ‘no,’ for an answer when Danny protested. He liked to be tied up, smacked around a little, not so much that it left him broken or bruised in places where others could see, but enough to make it seem like he’d put up a fight.

There was a time when Danny had been ashamed of this _itch_ of his. A time when he’d tried to use alcohol, and even drugs, as a substitute. They hadn’t worked, and in the end, he’d wind up taking it up the ass, or swallowing some guy’s dick in some back alley, or waking up in a cheap hotel room with some nameless, faceless asshole draped across his back.

It was an odd sort of business that Charlie ran, off-the-books, but one that was mutually beneficial, with both men paying to get laid. Of course, Charlie made out like a bandit. It didn’t come cheap, but Danny’d scrimped and saved, cutting out some of his favorite treats, and he’d saved enough money to buy a night with Manny.

  
Manny’s hand wrapped around Danny’s wrist, and the man pulled him into the entryway, making Danny stumble. He landed against Manny’s chest, and pushed back with his free hand, trying to right himself. Manny growled, and grabbed Danny’s second wrist, dragging them together, behind Danny’s back, leaving him more off-balance.

“Gonna fuck you so hard that you’re gonna feel me all the way into next week,” Manny whispered in his ear, making Danny shiver.

The man was even taller than Steve, and had dark hair longer than Toast’s. He was big, had muscles that rivaled even McGarrett’s, and they were covered in tattoos - some that Danny recognized as tribal. The man was Samoan, and probably had a thing for short, blonde haole’s. Charlie knew how to match people together. He was a matchmaking wizard.

Danny swallowed hard, his dick already weeping with need. Manny wrapped both of Danny’s wrists in one massive paw, eliciting a hiss of pain from Danny when his shoulders were wrenched backwards, painfully, and then he reached past Danny to shut the door, slamming it  with a resounding, bang that echoed in Danny’s head.

  
“Gonna fuck you like a bitch in heat,” Manny said, letting go of Danny’s wrists and flipping him around, immediately taking charge.

“Get the fuck off me,” Danny said, feeling the rush of adrenaline as he started to fight off Manny, pushing back against him, trying to turn around so that he would at least have a fighting chance.

Knowing that he’d eventually lose the fight, and he’d be pinned to the floor, or maybe the door while Manny fucked him, only amped up the adrenaline rush that Danny was feeling. It was his drug of choice, this adrenaline rush, and it was fucking amazing.

Danny twisted suddenly, and aimed a punch at Manny’s stomach, eyes widening when Manny easily parried it, and grabbed Danny’s fist and spun him around, slamming him hard against the door. For a few seconds, Danny stopped breathing, and his vision swam. His ears rang and buzzed, but he shook off the odd sensation, and tried to fight back.

Manny’s body was pressed against his. The doorknob dug into Danny’s hip, and the pain kept him alert, gave him incentive to buck and shove back against Manny in an effort to throw the man off of him.

“You fucking bitch,” Manny swore, and he grabbed Danny’s wrists, pinned them above Danny’s head, locking them in place with one of his mammoth hands, making Danny wince.

His wrists would be bruised, and Danny normally avoided that, he’d have to wear long-sleeved shirts at work, and keep the cuffs down over his wrists, covering them up so that prying eyes - namely Steve’s - wouldn’t see them. Steve couldn’t find out about this - ever. Not only might his job be at stake, but he’d definitely lose McGarrett’s respect for sure.

“Playing hard to get?” Manny breathed the words against the back of Danny’s neck. “You know you want it, cunt, so stop fighting me. You know you want me, inside you, tearing you apart, fucking you, owning you.”

“Get the fuck off of me,” Danny said, feeling the first stages of panic blossom, warm and sharp, in his stomach, as he tried, but failed to throw off Manny’s bulkier weight.

He didn’t understand why he craved this, what it was about having someone hurt him, that made him feel better, and whole, after it was over. Why he seemed to thrive on the sick, panicky feeling that he got just before he was fucked.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Manny promised. “And then you’re going to suck me off, and then I’m gonna fuck you again.”

“No!” Danny shook his head, the panic making his gut tighten, and his voice sound too high-pitched.

Manny laughed, the sound making Danny’s blood run cold, and then he reached around the front of Danny, and pulled at Danny’s belt. Danny stomped on the man’s foot, causing Manny to curse, but his hold on Danny’s wrists remained firm, and Danny’s belt slid to the floor with a quiet snick. Danny’s slacks followed suit, pooling around his feet. Danny could feel Manny’s cock, pressing against his lower back, and his panic increased as he realized just how big Manny really was.

No matter how much Danny prepared himself ahead of time - lubing and stretching- it always hurt, being fucked. This time would be no different.

Manny made quick work of Danny’s boxers, while Danny tried to wriggle out of his hold, snapping his head backward in an attempt to headbutt the guy. Manny slammed his body against Danny’s, pinning him, the doorknob digging into his side hard enough to bruise.

Danny heard the familiar sound of a zipper being lowered, and he struggled, hard, to free himself. There was a small part of him that really didn’t want this, that argued he was crazy, and yet his body seemed to be screaming for Manny to fuck him.  

Manny wasted no time. With a brutal thrust, he grunted, and buried himself balls deep into Danny, and then he started moving, pulling out and then slamming into Danny, over and over again, pulling Danny’s body with him, and smashing Danny up against the door, causing the door handle to dig into his side. Danny pleaded for him to stop, begged Manny to let him go, but the man kept up his brutal thrusts.

“You know you want this, bitch,” Manny said, licking at a spot behind Danny’s ear, and then sucking at Danny’s earlobe. “Stop acting like you don’t want me, that you haven’t been wanting me, that you don’t want this.”

He grunted and picked up the pace. Danny’s ass burned, and there were tears streaming down his cheeks. He was shaking, and yet, when the head of Manny’s dick brushed against his prostate, Danny saw stars, and he started matching Manny’s vicious thrusts, taking as much of the man as he could.

For several long minutes, or maybe it was only a few, mind-blowing seconds, Danny’s world was rocked on its axis. The animalistic sounds of grunting, flesh slapping against flesh, and incoherent moaning echoed in the small foyer, and Danny felt dirty, humiliated, disgusted with himself.

When Manny came with a final thrust and a howl, stiffening inside of Danny, Danny continued to push back on him. Time seemed to stop as Danny was filled with a sticky, squirming warmth that leaked from his ass when Manny pulled out of him with a distinctive squelch.

Manny released Danny’s wrists, and then took a step backwards, leaving Danny to crumble to the floor, sliding down the door, landing on his knees. He sat there, trying to learn how to breathe again. Thoughts of what it would be like to have Steve moving inside of him, grunting and panting, and calling out Danny’s name when the man howled and came while buried deep inside of Danny’s ass, came to him unbidden, and Danny fought down the sudden bile that rose in his throat. 

Before he’d fully regained his senses, Manny was on him again, pulling him, by his hair, away from the door. Danny scrambled to gain purchase on the floor, but it was useless, and he focused his energy on trying to throw Manny off balance.

“You fucking cunt,” Manny said, backhanding him when Danny had managed to land a wayward punch, catching the man in lower thigh.

Danny tasted blood, and his head swam, and, when Manny tossed him on the bed, as though he weighed little more than a sack of potatoes, Danny knew that this time would be different than the others. This time, he might have bitten off a little more than he could chew.

His cell phone rang, the tinny sound echoing in the corridor. Danny immediately recognized the ringtone - it was Steve’s - and he groaned.

“Fuck, I’ve got to get that,” he said, trying to push past Manny, but the man, either thinking that it was part of what he’d paid for when he’d given Charlie the cash, or not caring, refused to let Danny go.

Danny pulled a hand through his hair, and, no longer interested in whatever else Manny had in store for him, he laid a hand on Manny’s chest, trying to push the man, who’d straddled him, off of him. The phone kept ringing, and Manny twisted Danny’s hand, nearly snapping his wrist.

“Ouch, fuck, look, that’s my boss,” Danny hissed. “If I don’t answer...”

“What’s he gonna do?” Manny asked, bucking against Danny. The man was already hard again, and Danny was quickly losing interest as his phone stopped ringing, only to start up again.

“Well, Manny,” Danny said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “He’s going to trace my cell phone, and come over here and kick your ass, and, I’m going to cheer him on.”

Sagging against the bed when Manny refused to move, Danny sighed, and then he sat up, propping himself up on his elbows. The phone stopped ringing, only to start up with Chin’s ringtone. Now Danny was really and truly going to be in some deep shit. If Steve had asked Chin to call him, that meant they’d gotten a new case, or the governor needed them for something. Either way, Danny was figuratively screwed.

“How many bosses you got?” Manny asked when the phone stopped and started ringing, this time with Kono’s ringtone. The man paused above Danny, his dick within inches of Danny’s mouth, already leaking pre-cum as the man bore down on him.

Danny’s wrists were pinned above his head - apparently this was something that Manny liked - as his phone continued to ring. Soon, though, the sound of his phone was lost in the buzzing rush that filled his head when he fought to for breath around Manny’s thick cock as the man fucked his face.

Danny focused on pleasuring Manny, hoping that the man would come soon, and that he could leave, because as much as he’d been looking forward to this, knowing that his team was looking for him, and that he was letting them down, put a distinct damper on things. Danny was no longer enjoying himself. His itch had been sufficiently scratched.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Manny grunted, and came, spurting seed into Danny’s mouth. Danny swallowed, and gulped at the air when his throat was no longer obstructed.

“Onto your stomach,” Manny said, and Danny shook his head.

“This is over,” he said, putting his hands on Manny’s chest, only to have the man flip him, and then straddle his hips.

“You can’t be hard already,” Danny reasoned when the man started rutting against his ass.

“You’re a hot bitch,” Manny said.

“C’mon,” Danny pleaded. “Look, we both got what we paid for, it’s time to...”

  
A series of loud knocks cut Danny’s words off, and his eyes widened in horror when he heard, “This is Five-0, open the door, now.”

“Fucking idiotic SEAL,” Danny muttered. “Jumping to conclusions.” He tried to twist, and sit up, but Manny refused to move.

  
“Fuck,” Manny said, and then he was inside of Danny’s already sore ass, fucking him as the door was kicked in, and Danny’s team raced into the room. Manny didn’t let their egress slow him down any, and Danny couldn’t help his body’s response when his cock brushed against his prostate. He was only dimly aware that Steve had moved to the head of the bed, and that the man was bodily trying to pull Manny off of him, even as the man continued riding his sore ass.

“Gang bang the bitch,” Manny said, and then Danny’s ears were filled with an unholy roar and suddenly Danny was alone, his bare ass cold and quivering.

“Get him out of here,” Steve ordered.

Danny kept his eyes shut tight, not wanting to see, not wanting to explain. He wanted to pretend that none of this had happened, to go back and erase decades of seeking out the pain, the humiliation, that this act brought him.

Soon, the sounds of Manny, loudly protesting his arrest, and Kono and Chin reading him his rights as they shuffled him out of the door, faded into nothing, the door slammed, and the bed dipped. Steve’s hand landed on Danny’s back, gentle, yet heavy. Danny flinched, and immediately regretted his reaction.

In spite of his protests, his fighting, he’d wanted it. He’d wanted what Manny had given him, what he could never ask Steve, or anyone else that he cared about for. He’d wanted Manny to take what Danny could never freely offer any man, because he’d grown up being told that it was wrong, that, what he was - a man who liked both men and women, bi- was wrong.

Danny refused to acknowledge the tears that came as the memories that he’d locked away returned, in full force. His father’s booming voice, the feel of the man’s hands around his throat, choking him, trying to rid Danny of the demon that he’d been certain had gotten into his son when he’d caught Danny and Michael Carnegie kissing when they should have been studying.

After that, Danny’s door had to be kept open whenever he had anyone over. He’d stopped inviting friends over, instead opting to sneak out of the house when his father refused to let him visit or study with a friend. He’d started to defy his father in secret - meeting up with men nearly twice his age. He’d lost his virginity to a janitor in the boiler room of the school.

“Danny, you okay?” Steve asked hesitantly. “I...I panicked when you didn’t answer your phone, and I had Chin trace your cell.”

Danny snorted, and turned his head so that he could glare at his partner.

“And, I just...when I saw him, on top of you like that, I...oh ghod Danny, I just, I lost it,” Steve said, dragging a hand through his hair, and giving Danny a haunted look. “Did he hurt you?” Steve’s hand skimmed along Danny’s side, making him shiver.

Danny sighed, and closed his eyes. Swallowing, he took a deep breath and then started talking, spilling every sordid detail to Steve, who sat and listened, only interrupting to ask questions that helped guide Danny’s telling. When he was done, Danny’s throat was dry and hoarse, and he felt drained, emptied completely of words.

Steve didn’t say anything for a long time, and Danny’s heart sank. The man’s hand was resting on Danny’s back, every now and again rubbing at a sore spot.

Danny was too afraid to look at his partner, terrified of what he’d see reflected in Steve’s eyes. Terrified of seeing the same rejection that he’d seen in his father’s eyes when the man had caught him with Michael.

“Danny,” Steve started, and then he cleared his throat, and Danny chanced a look at him. The man’s jaw was held so tightly that Danny could see the muscle jumping in it, and his face was a mask of something that Danny couldn’t quite read. A face Danny didn’t yet have a name for.

“Steve, McGarrett,” Danny wasn’t sure what to call his partner, wasn’t sure if he’d be back to working for the HPD, or if he’d be heading back to Jersey, without Grace - his heart nearly broke when he thought about what he’d done, and how it could hurt his little girl, the shame that this would bring her should word of what he’d done get out.

“I,” Danny closed his eyes, and then plunged forward. “I’ll have my office packed up in the morning, and...”

“Shut up, Danny,” Steve said, and Danny held his breath. “Just shut the hell up, and listen, okay?”

Danny nodded, fearful of saying something that might set Steve off, and make the man stop talking.

“Look, I...” Steve ran a hand down his face. “I think that maybe you need help, you know, dealing with this.” He gestured around the room, at Danny’s bruised wrists. “But, I want you to know, that, if you get this...urge, this _itch_ , again, you can call me, okay? Just, call me, and I’ll, fuck Danny, I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to, okay? Just not with a stranger again. Not with some random guy that you find in an alley, or at a bar, or wherever the hell you get these people from, okay?”

Wide-eyed, Danny nodded.

“I need you to promise me that you’ll call, not just nod your head, Danny. You’re just, you're, fuck, Danny, you’re too damn important for me to lose you like this,” Steve said. “That guy could’ve killed you, and...”

Danny shook his head, but Steve held a finger up in his face, shaking it, stopping Danny’s protest with a purse of his lips.

“He could’ve killed you, Danny, any of them could have,” Steve said, his hand a comforting warmth on the back of Danny’s sore, bruised hip. “And,” Steve’s voice grew husky, and he dropped his gaze. “Danny, I wouldn’t do this to you, I wouldn’t hurt you, not like this.”

“But...” Danny’s protest died on his lips when Steve’s crushed against them, swallowing the rest of Danny’s words.

It wasn’t the best kiss that Danny had ever had, and, judging by the look on Steve’s face when the man pulled back, relinquishing Danny’s lips, it hadn’t been his best kiss either. But, Danny’’s heart skipped several beats, and he felt as though he’d stuck his finger in a light socket.

“Shit,” Steve exclaimed, rubbing the back of his neck. He was flush, and Danny wondered if the man had felt the same jolt of electricity that he had when their lips had touched.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Danny asked, once he’d caught his breath.

He waggled his eyebrows, and then laughed when Steve’s face became beet-red. For the first time since his father had caught him with Michael, Danny felt like he was whole again. He knew that the itch wouldn’t be back, but, if, on the off-chance it did, he knew that Steve would help him through it.


	2. Mitch - the Janitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny tells Steve how he lost his virginity (leaving out a few key parts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this comment from hedgehogunited: “It'd be interesting to know how Danny lost his virginity to the janitor for sure!”
> 
>  
> 
> Again, I'm not too sure about this. It turned into something that I had not been anticipating, and I experimented a bit with form. I'd be interested in knowing what people think of this - if it's worth keeping the chapter up, or not. Thanks

 “His name was Mitch,” Danny says.

He’s lying in bed, back cradled against Steve’s chest, their legs and feet tangled up in sheets that are sticky-wet with the sweat of sex. Steve’s chin is resting on Danny’s shoulder, and he can feel every breath that the SEAL takes. It makes him shiver.

It stinks – the aftermath of sex – a mixture of mildew and bleach that Danny knows has nothing to do with the here and now, but with the story that Steve wants to hear.

Danny stinks of Steve – salt from the ocean, gun oil – and of the ghost of Mitch, who, unbeknownst to Steve, is lingering in the negligible space between them – and he doesn’t want to talk about this.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not with Steve, because…because Steve said that he loved him, and, though Danny doesn’t want to read too much into that word, it’s hard for him not to.

Danny hasn’t heard that word – love – fall from a man’s lips since his father stopped telling him that he loved him when he caught Danny making out with Michael.

As Danny gears up to tell Steve about how he lost his virginity to the high school janitor when he was sixteen, he sifts through his memories, trying to bring some order out of them.

He wants to leave out the parts that won’t matter in this age-old routine of telling each other about their first time, that many couples – and that’s a dizzying thought, that he and Steve are a couple – engage in.

First times are often as embarrassing as they are sacred, and the telling of the loss of virginity puts couples on even-ground. Danny understands this, though the story he’s about to tell Steve isn’t the same one that he’d told Rachel when they’d first started dating and she’d asked.

For Rachel, Danny had woven a story built on half-truths that bordered on lies. In it, Danny had lost his virginity to the older cousin of one of his high school friends, in the backseat of his car, at a drive-in movie. The drive-in, the backseat, even the cheesy double-feature film that had been playing were all truths, but it hadn’t been a busty brunette with braces that he’d made out with, and it definitely hadn’t been his first time.

In reality, the busty brunette had been a dark-haired, broad-shouldered football player, with a few missing teeth, and Danny’d been on the receiving end of that particular encounter. He hadn’t lost his virginity to Doug – whom he’d called Dana – either.

Rachel had never known the truth, hadn’t even so much as guessed what it was that Danny really craved – to be dominated, and humiliated by other men. He’d gone to great lengths to hide it from her, from his family, but he didn’t want to hide it – at least not the parts that he could share – from Steve.

Danny tries not to get caught up in the memories – the sick fear, the shame, the thrill of defying his father as he remembers his real first time. The day he’d lost his virginity.

* * *

 

_Mitch._

_The name was stitched in swooping blue letters that stood out in stark contrast against the institutional grey and white striped uniform._

_There was nothing overly impressive about the lettering, or the man who bore the name._

_He had big, calloused hands, hair the color of straw – graying at the temples, eyes a milky blue, and teeth, crooked as Danny’s were straight, stained yellow- brown from tobacco. A broad chest and muscular arms completed the look. The man was tan and brawny, and, in many ways, ordinary. But, there was something else about the man, something that Danny, at the age of sixteen couldn’t really identify. Something that, later, he’d come to think of as charisma._

_At forty, Mitch was more than twice Danny’s age, and stood well over a foot and a half taller than Danny._

_“I know what you want,” Mitch said, and, at the time, Danny had brushed it off, ignored it. After all, it was just the creepy janitor – all janitors were creepy and suspect to sixteen year olds._

* * *

None of this is what Steve needs, or wants, to hear, though, so Danny leaves it out. He sticks to the basics, and twists certain facts.

In the version that he tells Steve, Mitch is just a few years out of high school, because Danny knows that Steve won’t understand what a sixteen year old Danny Williams had seen in a forty-year old man. There are times when he doesn’t know the answer to that himself.

He also doesn’t need Steve to go on some kind of one-man mission to hunt down a sixty-plus year old man who’d taken advantage of a sixteen-year-old boy when he was in his forties.

“He was taller than me, and…” Danny takes comfort in the way that Steve’s hand tightens on his hip, the warm breath that drifts across the back of his neck. “And had these hands that were big and broad and…”

* * *

 

_It was a Friday afternoon, late. The last bell had long since rung, and Danny’d been the last to leave Mr. Watterson’s class. All hopes of catching up to Michael and sneaking off to fool around in one of the dark, empty halls, dashed because he’d gotten an, ‘F,’ on his term paper. Hell, he was probably the last student left on school grounds. Even Mr. Watterson had left the building. Danny gulped as he realized that it was just him and Mitch._

_“I know what you need,” the janitor repeated._

_Danny ran a hand through his hair, and glared at the janitor._

_“Yeah, and what’s that?” Danny turned his back on the janitor, and spun out the combination for his lock, hoping that, this time, when he pulled up on the lever, it wouldn’t stick. He let out a frustrated puff of air when it stuck, and banged his head against the locker._

_“Here, let me,” Mitch offered, and Danny took a step back._

_Pressing his palms together, Danny said, “It’s all yours.”_

_Mitch chuckled, and shook his head, and with a flick of the wrist that was too quick for Danny to follow, he had the locker open. “Nothing to it.”_

_Danny snorted. “Figures that it’d take a **janitor** to open my stupid locker.”_

* * *

 

Danny shares this with Steve – Mitch jimmying the lock open lickety-split. Laughs at his inability to open his own locker, and how easily Mitch was able to open it with those massive hands of his.

“Said he had a magic touch,” Danny says, fingers tightening in Steve’s, trying to swallow the other memories down.

“Did he?” Steve asks, voice low and husky, possessive.

Danny shakes his head, and closes his eyes against the onslaught of the memories.

* * *

 

_“You got something against janitors, boy?” Mitch’s voice had an edge to it, and Danny paused, hand on the backpack he’d been about to retrieve from his cruddy locker._

_Danny shook his head, a funny feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He could feel the janitor’s eyes on him, boring into him, and he swallowed past a lump of fear, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, telling him that something wasn’t quite right._

_Danny closed his fingers around the strap of his backpack, willed his hand not to tremble, and he cleared his throat. The fabric felt weak and insignificant, not substantial enough for him to wield against the janitor should he need to protect himself._

_“No, sir.” Danny mustered the kind of respect that he had for his father when he knew that the man was about to beat the living tar out of him for something that he’d done, whether imagined or not. He didn’t meet the janitor’s eyes. The man reminded Danny of his father – fierce, unforgiving, demanding._

_“Good.” Something in Mitch’s voice made Danny look up, had his fingers slipping away from the strap of his backpack as he turned to look at the man he’d often seen pushing one of those wide mop-like brooms through the hallways during school hours._

_The man was looking at him, watching Danny with a look that made Danny’s mouth go dry, and the palms of his hands sweaty. Up close, the janitor didn’t look all that bad, and Danny quickly reassessed the man. In a way, he was kind of handsome – like and older, more rugged Robert Redford, Robert De Niro, and Clint Eastwood all mixed into one._

_Danny’s heart hammered in his chest, and he felt an electric charge in the air – the kind that foreshadowed that something significant, and life-altering, was about to happen, and there was little he could do to stop it. Not that he would’ve stopped it if he could’ve._

_Danny had always been a, take-the-bull-by-the-horns, kind of guy, and, it had gotten him into plenty of trouble – mostly with his father who warned him that his bull-headed ways and lack of self-discipline were going to dig him a hole so deep one day that no one would be able to help him out of it. Danny figured that now was one of those times, and wondered just how deep this hole would go, if his father would be proven right after all._

_Danny’s hole started with a kiss._

_Mitch pushed Danny back against the frame of the lockers; hands on either side of Danny’s head, his body close, erection poking into Danny’s thigh, one of the neighboring locks digging into Danny’s side._

_Mitch’s mouth was hard, his lips chapped and scratchy against Danny’s, teeth scraping along the outer edge of Danny’s jaw, tongue demanding ingress in a way that Michael’s never had._

_Mitch tasted like the whiskey that Danny’s father had forbidden him to drink, and the cigarettes that Danny sometimes snuck out back behind the school to smoke instead of going to gym class. It was a heady, sickening taste, and Danny couldn’t get enough of it._

_When Mitch pulled away, Danny followed eagerly, seeking more, moaning when Mitch pushed him back, palm flat against Danny’s chest, denying Danny what he wanted. “Fuck…” Danny’s complaint was broken off when the janitor ground his hips against Danny, and licked a stripe down Danny’s throat._

* * *

 

Danny tells Steve about the kiss. About how stubborn he was, and how it was he, not the janitor, who’d initiated the kiss.

“So, you made the first move?” Steve asks, the timbre of his words vibrating against Danny’s back.

Danny nods, forces a chuckle that makes him feel like he’s choking.

“Yeah, I was a regular Don Juan, too,” he adds.

Danny tells Steve about how the kiss had made him feel like he was getting one over on his narrow-minded father, and how he’d hoped to make Michael jealous, earning the fickle boy’s exclusive attentions.

Danny shakes his head, swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. “Michael never knew about it, and my dad never found out. It was stupid, really.”

Danny closes his eyes, presses the ball of his hand against his eyelids, hoping that it’ll keep the rest of the memories at bay. The parts that he won’t ever tell Steve.

* * *

 

_Mitch pressed the palm of his other hand against Danny’s bulge, gently massaging him through the fabric of his jeans. Danny hissed, and bit his lip, closed his eyes, because he couldn’t see straight anyway. His toes curled, and he held his breath._

_“Not here,” Mitch said; his voice low and gravelly. “Boiler room.”_

_Danny swallowed, and nodded, and bit his tongue when the janitor stepped away from him. He felt shaky, and lightheaded, and like he was sinking in quicksand._

_“I know what you want,” Mitch said for the third time that afternoon._

_Slightly winded, Danny thought that maybe the janitor was a mind-reader. Where he led, Danny followed._

_“Know what you need.”_

_Danny nodded, dumbly, feeling his hole get a little deeper as he followed the janitor down the hall and through a door, down a set of rickety stairs, into a basement which was poorly lit and dank, and, he didn’t care, because he was so damn hard that he felt like he was going to explode if something didn’t happen right then and there._

* * *

 

And, as Danny tells Steve a truncated version of what happened next – how firm and rough and taxing Mitch’s hands were, how efficient the janitor was, how he’d nailed Danny, hands pressed against the brick wall, jeans pooled around his ankles, ass pushed out and legs spread wide, so hard, and long that Danny couldn’t walk straight, couldn’t sit, for days – Danny leaves out the part where, at the last minute, he’d lost the nerve, and asked Mitch to stop, but the man hadn’t heard him, or maybe he had heard him, but hadn’t cared, because he’d fucked him anyway.

Danny leaves out how, for over a year after that – until the janitor moved away – on Friday nights, after Mr. Watterson’s class, Mitch would wait by Danny’s locker, broom in hand.

He leaves out how, head down, hands in his pockets, Danny would follow Mitch down those rickety stairs, the bitter taste of whiskey and the cloying stench of cigarettes making his stomach churn, and let the man fuck him any way that he wanted to. How, sometimes, Danny even begged for it.

Danny leaves those parts out, instead begging for Steve to fuck him again, to fill him, to dig his damning hole deeper. All the while hoping that, maybe – if he can do this, with Steve, who claimed to love him, if he can make this work, where things with Rachel hadn’t worked – that it’d fix what had been broken inside of him when he was a sixteen year old kid, playing at becoming an adult, and screwing his father who had never even known about what really happened on those Friday nights when Danny came home late from school.

“Was he any good?” Steve asks when Danny finishes telling Steve the parts that he can. Steve’s hand is resting warm, and comforting against Danny’s hip, fingers digging in just a little, not quite hard enough to bruise. 

Lost in thought – _Mitch buried balls deep inside of him, grunting, hands gripping Danny’s hips with bruising force, Danny’s throat burning with bile, and tears that he swallows, blood from the lip he’s bitten down on to keep from crying_ – Danny rubs a thumb against the outer edge of Steve’s wrist, and shakes his head.

“It was my first time, I didn’t know what I was doing,” Danny says. And, it’s not entirely a lie.


	3. Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve asks Danny about Michael, and Danny remembers more than he wants to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not certain about this, but I went with the flow of the writing. I will be working on another chapter when Danny asks Steve to give him what he needs (if anyone is still expressing interest in this series).
> 
> Not sure how this chapter even comes across. Feedback, as opposed to criticism, is appreciated (if you, as a reader, don't mind). I'm not overly concerned with grammar, because I tend to experiment, and take liberties with form. I'm aware of the rules governing punctuation and verb tense, etc. 
> 
> This is AU, and is not a reflection of anything happening on the show, nor is it an expectation of things to come on the show. I don't own any recognizable characters, and this is a work of fiction which is not written for money. It's a hobby.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and if you feel so inclined, for sharing your thoughts.

“Tell me about Michael,” Steve’s voice sounds light and nonchalant, but Danny can hear the tense undercurrent running beneath his partner’s seemingly benign words. It’s not a request for more information about Danny’s past, but a demand.

They’re sitting on the lanai stretched out side-by-side on lawn chairs. It’s been a busy week, and they’re unwinding, and Danny’s tired, aching. He wants a bloody steak, maybe grilled fish, and then for Steve to fuck him until he can barely remember his own name, voice hoarse and spent.

Sighing, Danny remembers. Remembers everything about that fateful day in late November of his freshman year of high school, when the world came crashing down around him in a flurry of punches, and the sting of a belt on his backside. Hurtful words hurled like fists, somehow more painful than the bruises that he’d had to hide from his mom, his classmates, for weeks afterwards.

Danny supposes that he’s always known that he was gay, before he even knew that there was a word for it. He remembers liking boys far back as kindergarten – little Gary Buckman with his curly red hair and blue eyes and freckles had been his first honest-to-goodness crush, and it was completely innocent.

When Danny had hugged Gary one morning, his father had given him a stern look and pulled him away from the other boy with a sharp jerk that had made Danny’s shoulder hurt.

“You don’t hug other boys like that, Daniel. It’s not right,” his father had said.

Danny had rubbed his shoulder and frowned up at his father, his brow crinkling, and thoughts whirling around in his head.

As he grew older, Danny wondered what it was that made other boys tick, and sometimes went out of his way to get a reaction out of them. It gave him an adrenaline rush, and made his stomach feel tight and fluttery, even though it sometimes led to fist-fights, which led to black-eyes and bloodied noses.

Steve’s hand on his arm, thumb rubbing along the outer edge of Danny’s wrist, does little to ease the tightness that settles in Danny’s chest as he’s jarred from his earliest childhood memories and contemplates how best to answer Steve’s question. He’s been waiting for it, like waiting for a time bomb to go off.

Danny takes a good, long swallow of his White Mountain Porter, relishing the slight coconut and chocolate taste on his tongue. Mounds bars and Almond Joys, the local beer reminds Danny of better, simpler times, when he was young, and before he was on his father’s permanent shit-list.

Nothing Danny had done – being first in his class at the academy, marrying Rachel, giving his father a granddaughter (the most beautiful little girl in the world), and every case he’d ever solved as a detective– since that fateful day late in November, had ever been enough to satisfy his father, and prove to the man he most wanted to prove himself to, that he was a man, even though he liked boys, instead of girls.

“Danny?” Steve’s voice pulls Danny out of memories that he’d rather not delve into, but that Steve’s presence in his life seem to bring to the forefront of his mind.

With Rachel, Danny had been able to avoid all of this. She’d taken Danny’s father’s emotional distance from his son at face value – she’d never been very close to her own parents – and had a much harder time accepting how close Danny was to his mother and siblings.

With Steve, though, Danny can’t hide. Isn’t sure that he _wants_ to hide anymore. Steve already knows some of the worst parts, the parts that Danny’d never shared with anyone else before. What’s a little more?

Suddenly thrown back to that day, Danny feels like a cornered animal, his father’d been blocking his only path toward escape, and the man’s hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides, his nostrils flaring. Danny’d never seen his father this mad in his entire life, not even when Matty had stolen a hundred dollars from his wallet and spent it on a GI Joe, Twinkies, and Pepsi.

_“Pop.” Danny’s voice had cracked, and he’d bitten down on his lip, tasting blood, and licking at it. He lowered his gaze when his father’s eyes had glittered with anger and shame._

_“I…I’m sorry, I…” Danny hadn’t known what else to say, how to apologize for what his father had just walked in on. It had only been kissing, and sure, he and Michael were supposed to have been studying, but one thing had led to another, and then, Danny, before he’d realized it, had had a hand up underneath Michael’s tee-shirt, and Michael’s fingers were digging into the pocket of Danny’s jeans, and they were kissing._

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it,” Steve says, his eyes filled with concern that makes Danny’s heart ache, pulling him from the memory.

“No, I…”

_Danny’s father had wasted no time in separating the two of them. Pulling them apart, pushing Danny to the floor, and wordlessly – vein popping out of his neck, pulsing – pointing to the door. Michael, blushing, not daring to look Danny in the eye, hands shaking as he plucked his bag off of the floor, and then stuffing his feet into his sneakers, not bothering to lace them up as he hastened to escape. Danny had heard Michael’s feet pounding their way down the hallway. He’d lost track of Michael’s flight when his father slammed the door, and advanced on him._

_Even now, all Danny can remember about that day was the sheer terror that he’d felt – the way his heart had pounded so hard in his chest that he’d thought for sure he was having a heart attack; his half-uttered pleas falling on deaf ears; his father’s face, red and blotchy._

_His father’s hateful words, though Danny doesn’t remember hearing them over the rush of blood in his ears –they’re memorized, they run through his mind every time he’s beaten and fucked, every time he pays for someone to ravage him, every fucking time._

_‘Disgusting.’_

_‘No good.’_

_‘Shameful.’_

_‘No son of mine.’_

_‘Queer.’_

_‘Pansy.’_

_‘Abomination.’_

_And there are more words, more shame, more hate. Words his father had hurled at him over the years, always when Danny’s mother wasn’t looking. Danny had never told her._

_His secret shame had never, to his knowledge, left his bedroom that day. His father, pale and trembling, weakened by the beating he’d given his son, had not uttered a word of it to his wife, had forbade Danny from telling anyone in the family that he was what he was. Had made Danny pretend like nothing had happened, and Michael was banned from the house as a ‘bad influence.’_

“It’s okay,” Steve says, hand resting high on Danny’s thigh, thumb rubbing along the edge, reminding Danny that he’s not alone now. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Danny holds his breath, tries to let it out as though it’s no big deal. Shrugs, worries that it looks too much like a shudder, and works at coming off as nonchalant.

“There’s not much to tell,” Danny says, voice high and shaky. “Other than Jimmy Palmer, second grade, behind the oak tree, Michael was my first real kiss.”

And the most memorable kiss, that is, not because of the quality of it – wet, sloppy, too much teeth, and tasting of pepperoni pizza – but because of the lesson that his father had beaten into him afterwards: Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Another. Living. Soul.

For awhile, Danny had tried not to look at boys. Tried not to sneak kisses – improved with practice – from Michael when no one was looking. Tried not to be gay.

And then he’d decided that his father was an asshole, and he’d kiss and fuck whoever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to, but he’d never told his father about it. Had kept it hidden. The way his father had wanted it.

Steve raises an eyebrow at the mention of Jimmy Palmer, and Danny smiles. In truth, Jimmy had really been his first kiss.

“It was completely innocent,” Danny says, and it’s easier, telling Steve about Jimmy Palmer, because his father hadn’t caught them, and Danny hadn’t had to pretend like his ass didn’t ache every time he sat down to dinner for a week afterward.

“Second grade?” Steve asks, and he shakes his head, nudges Danny’s shoulder.

Danny takes a sip of his beer, and rolls the neck of the bottle between his fingers before putting it down. Smiling at the memory, he reaches for Steve’s hand, and places a kiss on the palm. There’s a scar running from the center of Steve’s palm to the outer edge of his thumb. It’s warm, and pink, and Danny wonders who Steve’s first kiss was.

“It was on the cheek,” Danny elaborates, tracing Steve’s scar with an index finger. “He was crying, because I’d hit him. I didn’t know what else to do.” Danny shrugs, and Steve huffs out a chuckle.

Steve’s hand closes around Danny’s fingers, squeezing slightly, and Danny meets his gaze. Steve’s eyes are filled with understanding, and something that Danny’s afraid to recognize right now, because of the way that it makes his breath hitch, and his heart race.

He’s surprised, when the tears come, and Steve slips from his own lawn chair, wraps his arms around Danny and just holds him, not demanding anything. The kisses, when they start, are soft, comforting, and Danny loses himself in them, quietly spilling out the story of Michael and his father between breaths, Steve’s fingers working magic on stiff muscles.

When it’s over, Danny’s heart-sore and completely spent. Steve pulls him off the lawn chair, and up the stairs, and, when they come together, somehow it’s not fucking. Danny doesn’t want to place a name on it, because he can’t.  And for now, that’s enough.


	4. It Wasn't Rape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't know how to fix this, so he offers Danny what he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this; it's been a long time in the making, and I've 'finished' it tonight.
> 
> I appreciate all of the support for the previous chapters of this accidental story.
> 
> This one's from Steve's perspective. 
> 
> Again, I don't own the characters.

“It wasn’t rape.”  Danny’s voice is quiet, defensive.

Steve holds his breath, forces himself to remain calm, to breathe in and out when he can breathe somewhat normally again. Tries not to picture Danny as a teen, being preyed upon by an assistant coach -- freshly graduated from college -- because the man could see how desperate the teen was to be accepted.

Palms sweaty, groping, kneading pliant flesh. Calloused fingers like sandpaper on Danny’s stomach and ass. Pushing, shoving, forcing...a part of him had wanted it, had responded with screams cut-off, stifled behind a hand, in a dirty sock shoved in his mouth. 

Danny shifts as he talks, putting some distance between himself and Steve. It isn’t much, no more than an inch, maybe two, but it feels like an insurmountable gap – the Grand Canyon setting up residence in their bed. 

Danny’s quiet assurance is anything but reassuring, and Steve bites back a ready retort, lets it die on his lips. He resists the urge to pull Danny closer, knowing that the intimate act won’t be accepted. At least not yet. He’s got to wait this out. Wait Danny out. Let him finish the telling of a story that Steve doesn’t want to hear, if only because he doesn’t like that Danny’s had to suffer through it.

He doesn’t like pushing Danny, doesn’t like that Danny  wants  to be pushed. Or, rather that the man seems to  need to be pushed. 

But Steve needs to know. Has to know everything about what makes Danny want the things that he wants, the things that he begs Steve to do to him when he’s got that itch. 

Things that Steve doesn’t want to do, but is willing to do, if for no other reason than to keep Danny from getting his itch scratched by someone else. Someone who doesn’t love him. Steve knows that Danny won’t hesitate to go elsewhere if Steve is unwilling to help him out, and he hates that, too. 

It sits like a lead weight in his gut that twists itself into something ugly whenever Steve starts to thinking about it. 

Most of the time Steve avoids thinking about anything other than those rare moments when it feels like he’s making love to Danny and not fucking him to fulfill some dark, twisted itch that Danny’s got. Some broken thing inside of Danny which tells Danny that he needs to be pushed, hurt, punished for him to feel anything other than empty and ugly and dead inside. 

Steve cups the back of Danny’s neck with a hand, rubs his thumb across Danny’s collarbone; forces Danny to meet his gaze. There’s pain and fear in Danny’s eyes, his jaw is locked stubbornly, and the muscles of his neck are so taut that Steve’s almost afraid they’re going to snap. 

“I...” Danny takes a deep breath through his nose, bites his lip, and Steve waits. “I, there, I...I liked...I liked some of it.”

Steve can feel the familiar pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach, though he knows that there was nothing he could’ve done, even if he’d known Danny back then. Nothing that he could’ve done to stop the men who’d taken advantage of a confused, rebellious teen. The anger flares in his gut, and he pushes it down, because that’s not what Danny needs now. 

“It’s okay, Danny,” Steve says when the silence stretches, and Danny’s eyes glaze and take on a faraway look.

Danny shakes his head, blinks, and his mouth twists. He barks out a hoarse laugh and wipes at a wayward tear, gives Steve a watery smile.

“It wasn’t like that,” Danny says. “It wasn’t. I...”

“It’s okay, Danno,” Steve says, keeping his voice soft, low. “It wasn’t...”

“It wasn’t my fault? Is that what you were going to say?” Danny pulls back, but Steve doesn’t let him get far, keeps his hold on the back of Danny’s neck, pushes his thumb into Danny’s collarbone until Danny hisses and glares at him.

“It wasn’t,” Steve says. 

“I wanted it,” Danny says, defiant, blue eyes fairly sparkling with challenge. He’s closed off, eyes shining, lips in a thin line, back stiff.

Steve nods, bites his tongue. 

“Okay, you wanted it,” he says, his gut churning. 

He hates this. Hates what it takes to break Danny down, to get the truth from him. Hates what it does to Danny, what it does to him.

Danny lowers his gaze, digs his fingers into the bedsheets, plucks at an imaginary piece of lint, and when he next looks at Steve, there’s a desperation in his eyes that Steve’s never seen there before. It makes Steve’s heart clench, and he wants to look away, because it’s almost painful to see, but he doesn’t. Knows that if he does, he’ll lose Danny, not that he’s really had Danny. Not all of him. 

Danny takes a deep breath, his body shudders beneath Steve’s hands. Danny blinks, and suddenly Steve’s holding onto a Danny who’s crying and laughing almost hysterically. The change is so abrupt that Steve isn’t sure what to do at first, and he stiffens, almost pulls away, but forces himself to stay still, because this is new and unexpected, and there’s some little voice at the back of his mind that tells him this might be a good thing.

Fingers that, moments before, were tangled in the sheets are now clinging to Steve, digging into the flesh of his forearms with a bruising force. Steve doesn’t feel any of it though, doesn’t feel anything other than a deep sense of responsibility, and something that’s not quite pride, but is, because Danny’s finally trusting him. He holds Danny and lets the man cry.

Danny’s laughter gives way to full on sobs, and it’s ugly and painful and Steve’s gut twists painfully. He’s going to have an ulcer when all is said and done, and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything but what Danny needs right now. 

“It’s okay, Danno,” Steve murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe...” he realizes that he’s been murmuring variations of those words for the past however long it is that Danny’s been crying. His voice is hoarse, his mouth dry, and his throat aches. He’s running his fingers through Danny’s hair, cradling the man to his chest, offering him what little comfort he can, years after the fact. 

He feels useless, and irrationally  responsible for what happened to Danny all those years ago. Wishes that he could turn back time and keep it from happening in the first place. He wants to rescue Danny from his father, from the janitor, from every single person who hurt him, including this fresh-faced college graduate schmuck who took advantage of Danny when he was an assistant baseball coach at Danny’s high school. 

Steve thinks that if he could just fix the past, he could fix Danny, that he could get rid of this itch that Danny has -- this need he’s got to be hurt to feel loved. The need for violence and blood as foreplay to sex. The need that Steve had sworn to fulfill, because he’d wanted to keep others from fulfilling it in his stead. He’d wanted to keep Danny out of the hands of men like the janitor, and this assistant coach, and Danny’s bigoted father. He’d wanted to keep Danny safe, even if it meant that he’d sometimes have to be the one hurting him.

Steve hates himself, hates the janitor and Danny’s father, hates all of the men who’ve touched Danny in the intervening years. Hates Rachel for not sticking with Danny, even though they should probably have never married in the first place. Steve hates that he couldn’t have stopped any of this from happening to Danny in the first place. 

“I’m sorry, Danno,” Steve says, his own eyes filling with tears, the grip he’s got on the back of Danny’s neck tightening. 

“I thought I wanted it,” Danny says quietly, once his crying subsides. Danny’s head’s cradled on Steve’s chest, his arms are wrapped around Steve. 

“I was so confused, and he was, he was...he took interest in me, you know?” Danny turns his head, looks up at Steve through his eyelashes. Vulnerable, hurting, fearful. 

“It was after my dad, after the janitor, after...” Danny trails off, his lips moving against Steve’s chest. 

Steve tightens his grip on Danny, presses a kiss to his forehead, rubs his thumb on the outside of Danny’s hip. Danny snorts, turns his head. Steve can feel Danny’s eyelashes brushing against his chest, the warmth of Danny’s breath gives him goosebumps. 

“It was like that with the janitor, too,” Danny confesses quietly, and Steve stills, holds his breath and then lets it out. “I...uh, I tried...I didn’t...I couldn’t.” Danny breaths out a frustrated breath, unable to voice what it is that he wants to, what Steve already knows.

Somehow he’d known when Danny’d told him those many months ago. Had known that Danny’s first time hadn’t been the way that it should have -- two people bumbling around as they explored their bodies and  tried to figure out what the hell they were doing, and what went where. Awkward, quick -- all arms and legs, teeth clanging and elbows digging into ribs. 

Nerves frayed; electricity in the air that wasn’t all due to teenage hormones; kisses that were wet and sloppy and had too much tongue and teeth. It should’ve been all of those things, and more. It should have been a horrible-sweet mix that ended in a tangled mess of limbs, bodies piled on top of each other, blankets and clothing strewn about the floor -- sharing a bag of chips, getting crumbs in the bed...some variation thereof.

It should never have been what Danny had experienced-- shame and fear, being pushed over the edge before he was ready to take that jump. Before he was ready to do what he’d done. What had been done to him. 

Steve wants to apologize. Wants to take away years worth of shame and pain. Wants to undo what others have done to Danny, but he can’t. He isn’t sure that, if he could, Danny would let him. 

So, instead, he offers Danny what he can. And he knows it won’t undo what’s been done to Danny. It won’t erase what years of living with that kind of pain and shame have done to him. It won’t make Danny ‘better’, but it’ll be a step in the right direction. 

“Let’s make love,” Steve says, voice husky and low, in spite of his attempt to make it light, thumb trailing along the curve of Danny’s ass. 

Danny laughs, and it isn’t desperate sounding this time, eases some of the tension that’s been building up in the space between them. He presses his lips to Steve’s chest, and nods.

“Take it slow?” Steve asks, receives a nod in return. “Pretend it’s our first time?”

Danny stiffens, and Steve holds his breath, lets it out when Danny nods. 

“Yeah,” Danny clears his throat, licks his lips. “I think I’d like that.”

“Me, too, Danno,” Steve murmurs, kisses the shell of Danny’s ear. 

He might not be able to turn back time. Maybe he won’t be able to look up those men who’d hurt Danny all those years ago, and kick their asses, but this -- show Danny what it’s like to make love, without pain and violence -- he  can do, and he’ll do it over and over again, until Danny knows what it means to make love, and to be loved; that it’s more than just fucking. 


	5. Make-Believe and Fred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny owes Charlie for that accidental bust that went down when Steve walked in on him and Manny. He's doing this, because he loves Steve, and he can't ask Steve to help him scratch that itch, and not because Charlie's threatening to blackmail him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is raw and imperfect, but I'm going to post it anyway. 
> 
> I think maybe I shouldn't have read the fics listed under "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood" when I accidentally happened upon them yesterday. The ones I read, though, are very good, and I do recommend them. 
> 
> Like? Hate? Want more? Let me know. Feeling rather iffy about this one.

The guy reminds Danny of Mr. Rogers from his light blue sweater vest to his nifty house shoes. There's a smile on his face when he answers the door, and, were it not for the hint of cruelty and cool calculation in his mild blue eyes, Danny would've taken the man for a kind, grandfatherly sort. 

He's in his mid to late fifties. Salt and pepper hair cropped close. 

'Retired military,' Danny thinks. He's more than a little familiar with the type.

"You must be Danny," the man says, and he opens his front door wide, gestures for Danny to enter. "You can call me, Fred."

Danny almost laughs, but he manages to bite his tongue, and tamp down on the nervousness that he feels. There was a time when he'd paid just for this sort of thing: an older, domineering, father figure to put him in his place. 

Just because he wasn't paying for this, didn't make it any different. He could, if he put Steve, and the promises he'd made to the man, out of his mind, enjoy this. Could enjoy getting the crap beat out of him by a man who played make-believe for a living, and then fucked to within an inch of his life, because that's what he needed. What he's always needed.

He'd not said no to Charlie because he'd feared any repercussions for not giving into the man's demands that he make restitution for the Five-0 bust that brought his and Manny's little setup to an abrupt end. He'd agreed because, in spite of Steve's willingness to be there for him, maybe even because of it, Danny still has an itch for this. Still has a need to be punished. A desire to please a man who, even while fucking, can't be pleased.

Steve's too easily pleased. Too loving. Too gentle. And it scares Danny, because he's not used to that. Even with Rachel, things were rough and Danny'd welcomed her physical abuse.

Danny needs rough and brutal. He needs to be damaged and bruised. He needs what Fred, who isn't Fred, can give him. And that pains him, because he knows that if Steve knew, it would hurt him, which is laughable, except for the fact that it's not, because Steve is far more sensitive than he lets on. And Danny can't ask this of Steve.

Can't ask Steve to double him over with a well-placed knee to the groin. Slam his head into the wall, shove him down on his knees and force him to suck him off while hurling insults at him. Blood and pre-cum dribbling down his chin. Can't ask Steve to tell him what a fuck-up and dumb-ass he is. Call him a whore while cumming in his mouth, hands fisted in his hair, tugging on it painfully.

Can't ask Steve to haul him up by his hair and drag him to a room in the back of the house, while he scrambles to keep up, to work in a punch or two of his own, because it's expected that he fight back, at least a little. Can't ask Steve to punch him in the stomach, hard enough to make him see stars and then command him to strip, to kneel on a hard, cement floor, forehead pressed down, ass spread wide by hands that shake and bloodless fingers.

He's numb, panting, struggling to get his breathing and the frenetic beat of his heart under control, and yet he begs for it. Begs Fred to do what he could never ask Steve to do. 

And, steady stream of insults flowing, Fred takes Danny like the filthy animal he is. Fucks him hard, makes tears stream down Danny's face. Hurts him in a way that he hasn't been hurt in a long time, not since the janitor, not since his father rejected him because he was a queer. 

And when it's over, Danny begging and pleading for Fred to stop as much as he's asking him not to, Danny feels like he's been bruised from the inside out, knows that he'll need to lie low for the next couple of days until he's healed. There's a clinic he can go to, no questions asked, if he needs medical attention.

He won't see Steve until Monday rolls around. Carefully worded lies had seen to that. 

Danny limps to his car without a backward glance, can see 'Fred' peering out through a crack in the blinds as he pulls away from the curb. Tries to ignore the knots in his stomach that mimic butterflies, and the pain in his ass that makes it difficult to sit.

Later that night, when he takes himself in hand, too much pent up energy to sleep without jacking off first, it's Steve's face that he sees, but Fred's steady stream of filth that he hears coming from Steve's mouth. Fred's callused hands that he feels assaulting his body. Steve's name is on his lips, but it's the memory of Fred's brutal thrusts, his punishing pace, that wrings an orgasm from him. 

Sleep doesn't come easily for Danny, and it's got nothing to do with the painful contusions that litter his body or the ache that seems to be soul deep. He knows that Steve's too good for him. Knows that, if Steve gives him what he wants -- what Fred and others have done to him in the past -- he'll have lost something as precious as Grace to him. He'll have lost what might be true love. Cheesy and cliché, but nonetheless true for all of that. 

****  
  



	6. Scratching an Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble-like addition to this series. Danny has an itch that needs to be scratched. The drugs are new, but the feeling isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this written for ages. Not sure why I hadn't posted it yet. It's vague. I'm working on something else for this, and have written some other offerings that I'm not sure about posting.

He hates this. The feeling that he's drowning, head spinning, body aching. 

He can't see clearly, but that has little to do with the concussion he'd gotten from his lover of the hour, and more to do with the remnant of the drugs in his system; the fact that he's not slept in over twenty-four hours. 

He hates this. Hates himself. Hates the men who do this to him. The fact that he lets them do this to him. 

It's an addiction that he can't stop. Doesn't want to stop, because he needs this as much as he needs air to breathe.

It's the only way he feels alive anymore. Getting fucked. Beaten. Being at the mercy of some nameless s.o.b. for a couple of hours once a month, at least.

The drugs are new. Something he doesn't care to repeat. 

At least he's not sunk that low. He's not a druggie. Yet.

He's just a man with an itch that needs to be scratched. 

"Fuck me," he begs, drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth, words slurring like the lines of the blinds that he's staring at. 

He can see the sun rising through the cracks in the slats, all orange and yellow glow. The heat of it doesn't reach him.

Gripping the edges of the pillow tightly, he stifles a screamed curse when the cock slams home again and again. 

His head pounds in time with the man's thrusts, and his breath is stolen, back arching, toes digging into the firm mattress as he's fucked fast and hard, his itch being scratched.


End file.
